Page 51 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“I mean, it would be nice, but it’s your decision. Really.”

*

The next morning, the whole office was visibly demoralized. People were gathered in clumps, talking nervously about what was going to happen. Michael Rodriguez clapped Paul on the back and said, “Adios, bud.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Got a job at Baupost, in Boston. Less money, but still . . .”

“Congrats. That’s a great place.”

“How about you? Are you staying?”

Paul shook his head.

“Have you told Karp yet?” Karp was their immediate boss; he generally stayed out of the way, in his office. “Or Bernie?”

“I have some emails to write,” Paul said. He emailed Karp, then sent an email to Bernie, thanking him for everything.

Twenty seconds later, his email notification chimed. It was Bernie, asking him to come to his office right away.

Paul was expecting Bernie to try to talk him out of his decision to work for Arkady, so he arrived at Bernie’s office armed with arguments. Instead, Bernie, who was slumped in his chair, looking haggard, not like his usual energetic self, said, “I get it.”

“About leaving?”

“I’d do the same thing, if I was you.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

“I’m sure you have your choice of firms. You want me to put in a good word, just tell me.”

“Thanks, but I think I know where I’m going.”

“Boris Badenov?”

“Who?”

“You probably never sawRocky and Bullwinkle.”

“Before my time.”

“Boris Badenov was the bad guy. I think he was supposed to be Russian. Called himself the world’s greatest no-goodnik. Had a pencil-thin mustache. Spoke in a bad Russian accent.”

Paul shook his head slowly.

“Let’s grab a steak, okay?” Bernie said.

*

They went out for a drink and a steak at Bernie’s favorite Irish pub in Manhattan. O’Malley’s was the real thing. It offered bangers and mash and shepherd’s pie, decent steaks, and Irish lamb stew. The stained-glass windows in the main room added an ecclesiastical note. Bernie had frequented O’Malley’s since he was a young trader and just liked the place. The roar of traffic from the street was, thankfully, remote.

They started with black-and-tans, Guinness layered on top of Bass Ale.

“What kind of shop does Galkin run?” Bernie asked. “It’s not a hedge fund.”

“It’s an investment fund. I think it just manages his money, his real estate portfolio, and so on. Sort of a glorified family office.”

“How much they run?”

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